


Full English

by Writing-The-Thing (writingfanfic)



Category: The Thing (1982)
Genre: Alcohol, F/M, Fluff, Hangover
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-26
Updated: 2019-01-26
Packaged: 2019-10-16 14:22:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17551346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writingfanfic/pseuds/Writing-The-Thing
Summary: 'Reader is riding out a hangover with Mac. Both are very grumpy please and thank you?'Poor babies.





	Full English

“Pass me the water.”

“Magic word.”

“Pass me the water, you hell-bitch.”

“Unflattering, but I’ll allow it.”

You stretch your arm out from under the blankets and pat around on the table – it was about here somewhere. Eventually, your fingers curl around the metal water bottle, and you drag it under the covers, taking a slurp from it.

“Hey,  _I_  asked for it.”

“Yeah, and called me a bitch.” You pass it over in the direction you knew Mac was in last – his fingers wrap around it but not quite enough, and it tumbles to the floor, ringing out around the shack. You both make a half-scream, half-groan of deep, deep unhappiness, and then he crawls towards you.

“I hate you.”

“I thought you didn’t get hangovers?”

“I  _don’t_. You fuckin’… made this happen, you witch.” He amalgamates your blankets somehow, and snuggles up to you. Both of you smell like the actual devil – thank god you’re both off for the next two days, you think. Maybe you can go outside and lie in the snow – freezing to death a little sounds far better than this hell of heat and pain. “Okay, I-”

 _Bam-bam_. You both groan-scream again, and Mac rises like the wrath of an old God, dragging himself to the door before whoever’s there can cause this again. He opens it, and you huddle into the bedding as Nauls steps inside, bearing a couple of bags.

“Okay, Mac, I got you what you asked for. Full English breakfast for two.” Mac nods, and grabs two bottles of whiskey, wincing as they clank and handing them to him. “Holy shit, Mac, thank you…”

“I don’t want to talk. I don’t want to hear talking. Just… go. Thank you,” Mac says, and Nauls nods, waving at you.

“Wild night, huh?” he smirks from the depths of his parka hood, and you nod slowly. “In the flasks-” You note that there are two big metal thermoses. “-there’s some coffee. My own personal touch. Don’t say I don’t hook you up, Mac, ‘cause I do.”

“Take whiskey. Go. Now.” Mac’s voice is so hoarse, and Nauls grins.

“Oh, and the boss wants me to remind you... fire drill at three, man.”

He leaves, shutting the door, and Mac stares for a moment, before reaching up and knocking the plate off of the alarm. It’s no good – it’s wired into the mains, and Mac falls onto the bed, groaning.

“We’re gonna  _die_.”


End file.
